If you ever think being an adult is just about showing up, buying groceries, and maybe paying rent, Havenbrook will personally come over, slap that idea out of your head, and then laugh in your face.
My first official "job" wasn't glamorous. It was delivering groceries for Ms. Jenkins, the nicest old lady with a voice that could cut glass when annoyed. And yes, she lived two blocks from the corner store, which—on paper—sounded easy.
"Ty!" Marky called as we walked toward her apartment. "Remember: charm them, don't break anything, and if it goes wrong… just laugh. Everything works better with laughter."
I blinked at him. "You say that like it's magic. Charm? I don't even know what I'm supposed to charm. Milk? Bread? The damn mailbox?"
Marky laughed. "Just follow me, disaster king. You'll figure it out."
As we approached Ms. Jenkins' building, the Westside streets came alive. Tony "Tiny" Williams was practicing parkour off the fire escape, a group of kids tossed a soccer ball into the street without looking, and Mrs. Rivera, the laundromat owner, was arguing with a delivery guy about missing quarters. Classic Westside chaos.
"Perfect day for chaos," I muttered under my breath.
Marky elbowed me. "It's called character-building. Pay attention. That soccer ball might just hit you in the face if you're not careful."
I nodded, careful to avoid the errant ball. As I approached Ms. Jenkins' door, Rashid "Rash" Ahmed appeared from a corner shop, munching on some fried chicken.
"Yo, Ty," he said, grinning. "You look nervous. Relax. Worst-case scenario, you survive with dignity—or at least a funny story for Instagram."
I tried to smile. I failed.
Inside Ms. Jenkins' apartment, the groceries were stacked like a precarious Jenga tower. Eggs on top, milk in the middle, bread scattered everywhere. I picked up the bag with the utmost care.
Then my left foot met nothing. One step… slip… and gravity did the rest.
Eggs rolled like little yellow bullets. Milk splattered on the floor, on me, and apparently on Ms. Jenkins' cat, Sir Whiskers, who dashed up the curtains like a caffeinated acrobat.
"Oh heavens!" Ms. Jenkins shrieked.
I froze, dripping milk, trying to apologize. "Uh… breakfast is served?"
Marky's laughter echoed from the street. "Oh man! Look at him go! Disaster king lives up to his title!"
I groaned. "Thanks, Marky. Really supportive."
Meanwhile, Tiny peeked over the fire escape again, laughing so hard he nearly fell. "Yo, Ty! That's your first round!"
I glared up at him. "Next round? You're in trouble, tiny man."
The chaos was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mrs. Patel, an elderly neighbor, peered in. "Is that you making a mess again, Ty?"
"Just… creatively reorganizing groceries, ma'am," I said, dripping milk from my hoodie.
"Creatively? Ha! You'll never survive Westside if you can't even survive a shopping bag."
I sighed. Survival was starting to sound overrated.
After what felt like hours, I finally got the groceries somewhat organized, apologized to Ms. Jenkins and Sir Whiskers, and stepped outside, milk-stained and defeated.
Marky slapped me on the back. "See? Survived. That's what counts. Plus, you got a story now. People remember stories, Ty. Especially funny disasters."
I muttered under my breath, "Yeah… I'll be remembered as the milk-soaked failure."
"Eh, maybe," Marky said. "Or maybe as the kid who laughs at himself and still keeps moving. That's Westside respect."
Rash appeared again, holding a fresh snack. "Man, you gotta lighten up. This is just the start. You'll look back and laugh. Or cry. Or both."
I glanced at him. "I'm leaning heavily toward crying."
"Good attitude," Rash said. "You'll fit right in."
Then Tiny waved again from the rooftop. "Next time, watch where you step, disaster king!"
I flipped him off, half-heartedly. "Next time, you're on my milk-spill hit list."
We walked back down the block. Marky was already talking about our next hustle: helping at a small food truck near campus.
"Food truck?" I asked, skeptical. "Isn't that college territory?"
"Exactly," Marky said, grinning. "And exactly where you need to be. Students are hungry, Westside kids like us hustle. Plus… there's a cute girl you need to meet."
I groaned. "Cute girl? I can't even survive milk without killing a cat."
"You'll survive," he said. "Trust me. Westside survival skills translate to charm skills. Maybe."
I sighed, resigned. "I guess… I'm doing this. Milk-stained hoodie and all."
And that's how I started my first real hustle, clumsy as it was, surrounded by Westside chaos, minor enemies, quirky allies, and a city that didn't give a damn about me—but maybe… just maybe… would start noticing me if I kept moving.
Hustle wasn't glamorous. It was messy, painful, and occasionally milk-soaked. But it was life. And if I could survive this, maybe I could survive anything.